


we're all fighting growing old

by lucifucker



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Purgatory, Sexual Content, Young Blood Chronicles, author is incredible at tagging and is also very tired, good luck, post-Rat A Tat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:00:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it's not Andy, it can't be Andy, because Andy isn't supposed to be here. Andy was supposed to make it. </p><p>----</p><p>Post-Rat A Tat video, Joe and Andy find each other again in purgatory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're all fighting growing old

Contrary to what the world may believe, purgatory is not a white void where you float around doing nothing. Purgatory is, in fact, basically a big, white, circular apartment complex, with a nice enough little courtyard in the middle. There are white beds, and white sheets, and white carpets, and white clothes, and everything is fucking white, okay?

Joe would know. He's been here for an immeasurable amount of time, because time passes differently in the netherspace between life and death, or so the random rasta guy over by 3B told him, but he's still in a general space of being pretty stoned, so Joe's not really taking his word for it. 

The way the people who work and live there explain it, it's not a permanent destination. It's like a rest stop, for people who aren't ready to move on.

Joe's not ready to move on, and knows it, so he doesn't exactly question this judgement. 

It's boring, because there's not much to do other than stare at the other dead people tat for some reason inhabit this particular part of it ("They can't fit everybody in here." James Dean, which, by the way, is awesome, tells him one day, shrugging his shoulders "But they can put us in groups and keep us safe, while we wait." Wait for what, Joe doesn't ask, but while he's there, James kinda gets pulled up by this white light and Joe's 90% sure that as he's floating away he sees a pair of arms wrapping around the teen's waist.)

Purgatory, for some weird reason, has a library, and Pete was always calling him a philistine for never having read Proust, and he fucking misses Pete, so he starts on the first volume cause who the fuck knows how long he'll be here?

He misses all of them, actually. Misses Patrick elbowing him in the stomach when he says stupid shit, misses Pete and his stupid cold fingers constantly insisting on sneaking into the warmest parts of Joe, and he misses Sokka licking his face first thing in the goddamn morning

And above all else, he misses Andy, when he sleeps (which he doesn't need to do, but he kind of loves it, and when he dreams, he can forget he's fucking dead) when he reads, when he walks around, when he just sits and stares at the wall because he can do that if he fucking wants. He misses Andy like he'd miss a limb, when he reaches out for a hand that's not there, and lays down in a bed that's one person short. 

But he's glad, in a way. Because the longer he's alone, the longer Andy's still living, still fighting, still trying to save Patrick and keeping Pete safe and being kept safe, and that's more than Joe could ever ask for. 

 

Otherwise, purgatory is seriously pretty fine. 

It's fine until the day he looks up from Vol. II and there's a short, stocky brunette coated in tattoos stepping into the courtyard looking a little angry, and a little confused, and a lot scared.

 

And it's not Andy, it can't be Andy, because Andy isn't supposed to be here. Andy was supposed to  _make it._

The book falls to the floor, and Andy's eyes widen as their gazes meet across the yard, and before he can even think, he's up out of his seat, hurtling across the cobblestones faster than he's ever moved before, and Andy is running full-tilt toward him, pushing people and chairs out of the way in his effort to get to Joe.  

They crash together, and it's not exactly monumental, but for the first time in however long, Andy's arms are wrapped tightly around his neck, and his face is buried in the soft crook of his neck, inhaling the lingering scent of pleather and sweat while his hands dance over the smaller man's body over his t-shirt (fucking white) fingers pressing into each line and divot of Andy's back. 

And his throat is broken, it must be, because every time he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is this broken huff of air, and Andy just shakes his head, pulls back, cups his face with both hands and pulls him down to lock their lips together.

And it takes him a minute, to realize that he can't speak because he's crying, gasping against Andy's mouth while his tears drip down onto Andy's cheeks. Andy slides his hands up into Joe's hair, and tangles his fingers in, keeping him anchored while he sobs uncontrollably, littering kisses over his face. 

"No." He finally manages to grit out, through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. "Y-you're not--here."

"Joe." Andy breathes, and Joe shakes his head, swallowing thickly while he tries to rein in the pain in his chest. 

"You can't. You can't, please, Andy, you can't." He sniffs, and his own hands come up, framing Andy's neck while he tilts to kiss him again, murmuring against his lips; "Please, baby, go back, they've got to send you back, please." And it shouldn't have taken him so long to realize that Andy's eyes are wet, but they are, and there are tears of his own beginning to trickle out of them. 

"I had to." He says, and his voice isn't supposed to be this broken, because  _Andy_ isn't supposed to be this broken, Andy's the strong, steady, vegan motherfucker who drags Joe home and makes him sleep and holds him when he hates himself too much to get up, and Andy is not supposed to be this fucking  _small._ "I had to. For Pete." He clamps his mouth shut, and Joe can see, even with how hurt he is, the determination in him that he fell in love with in the fucking first place, the same thing that drove him to fight Patrick, the thought that maybe, if he did this, if he kept Patrick busy, the others would be safe. 

And he knows Andy's in the right, knows he would have done the same thing, especially for Pete, so he rests their foreheads together, and cards his fingers through Andy's hair, and tries to remember how to breathe. 

"How--how long?" He nudges their noses together, and Andy's thumbs press into his temples. 

"Two days." He says, his voice soft. "If that."

"I'm sorry." Joe murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry, I love you, I'm so sorry." Andy shakes his head, just a little, and presses closer, nudging his nose against Joe's cheek. 

"I wouldn't have wanted to live without you." He says it smoothly, and without any kind of pause for consideration, because it's not a declaration of love, it's a cold, hard fact, but Joe's stomach still clenches because he was there, in November of 2011, he walked into Fuck City and crawled into bed with Andy because he was too scared of what would happen if he left. Being dead kind of puts a whole new perspective on keeping your friends alive. 

"Pete?" He asks, and Andy shakes his head again.

"He got out." Joe nods, and feels his shoulders relax, if just a little. 

They're both quiet for a long, long time, Joe's not sure how long, because again, time, dead, whatever. 

Eventually, Andy shifts just enough that they're kissing again, and it's less urgent, now, because neither of them are crying anymore so much as just leaning into each other, like they did back home, except now they're in fucking purgatory, and the only thought Joe can really coherently form is  _well at least we're together._

He voices that thought, and Andy manages half a grin, sniffing softly while his lips graze over Joe's cheeks. 

"I love you." He mumbles.

Joe lets out a soft sigh, and lets his hands travel down, wrapping them easily around Andy's slim hips. 

Later, he'll make Andy explain everything that happened, tell him every minute detail of how he died because if they ever get out of here, Joe will track down whatever bitch did it and personally destroy them, and he knows Pete and Patrick will help, provided Patrick isn't a demon anymore by the time he gets up here.

But for now, he leads Andy up to his room, which is fucking white, just like fucking everything else is fucking white, and pulls his shades shut (which, by the way, because of the fucking purgatory magic, makes the whole room fucking beautifully dark), presses him into the mattress by his hips and sucks a line of marks down his throat, and sex in purgatory is awesome, because it's not too hot, and it's not fucking freezing, and he pulls off Andy's crisp (fucking white) shirt, and licks over his chest, because he's been in here for fuck knows how long, and he missed this, needed this. 

And it's perfect. Its fucking perfect, because they fit together exactly the way they used to, with Andy's legs wrapped tight around Joe's waist, and Joe's lips tracing every tattoo, every inch of him before he fucks into him, slow, and steady, and just enough, and when he comes, it's gotta be one for the history books, because Andy's writhing under him, fingernails scraping down Joe's sides, marking his collarbone with tongue and teeth, and Joe rides out the aftershocks and then pulls out, slides down him and takes Andy's cock in his mouth, jerking him, hard, and sucking just enough until Andy's hips stutter beneath him and he can pull back and swallow, hard, milking him for every drop he's got. 

They curl up together, afterward, their legs tangled and foreheads pressed together, and Joe finally feels like he can sleep, as Andy rolls over him and pillows his head against his chest, one arm and one leg wrapped possessively around his body. 

"They'd better keep us waiting." He mumbles into Andy's hair, even though he knows they won't, and Andy presses a soft kiss to his bicep, and nods. 

"Damn straight." 

 

 

 

 


End file.
